Phantoms
by Randomiss
Summary: As Rhaegar Targaryen prepares to cross swords with Robert Baratheon, his mind paints pictures of a lily, faded scene.


**Phantoms**

_Fire and blood. _

Rhaegar Targaryen sat in his tent, dragon banners flying all around him. He thought of his father's last words to him before he marched forth with their army. Those had been his father's first words to him too. They were the ones he'd heard the most throughout his life, the only ones that ever mattered. Fire and blood. Legacy and swords and dragons. The sound of metal against metal filled the air with its familiar hissing as he edged his blade.

The beams of sunlight invaded his tent, breathing radiancy to the world around him, but he found no joy in their warmth. He was to ride at nightfall, to face the man responsible for all the discord of the realm, the man who dared to desire his Lyanna. Robert Baratheon had crawled his way to power over the corpses of Targaryen soldiers, and Rhaegar would have him hang for it. His allies, Eddard Stark included, would also need to share his fate. Rhaegar would have preferred to be merciful, for the sake of the love the two of them shared for his sister, for Lyanna. But alas, his father thought it otherwise. _Fire_ _for the traitors! Fire! Feed their meat to it!_ Lyanna would understand. Lyanna would forgive him.

Ah, Lyanna Stark. She wasn't his by noble right, but she was his by every other law of nature. She was a wolf, a wild storm he worshipped. Even as a thousand hills and rivers stood between them, Rhaegar recalled her image so vividly it almost pained him. His father, the realm, the throne. Even the smile of his gentle wife as she rocked their children to sleep. They were all ice and Lyanna Stark was fire, hot fire, wildfire, dragonfire. Whenever Rhaegar thought of her, all else faded into nothingness, all gave way to the blazing image of the she-wolf. The day he had laid his eyes on her, he had known he'd need to either have her or die, or die having her. Red hair, wolfish eyes and feral to the bone, she was a flame that Rhaegar had never been able to found a match to.

The image of a wench with golden hair surfaced in his mind without warning. Tywin Lannister's daughter, the one the former Hand had plotted to marry him to. _Cersei_, Rhaegar remembered with effort. The girl had been a feast of a sight, blessed with both beauty and confidence to rival those of a woman with pale hair and purple eyes like his own. Only she wasn't of his kind. She was a lion, gold like the coin her father could build entire mountains of, and gold and silver were not one and the same.

One time the King had held a regale that the Lannisters attended, and the girl sat at Rhaegar's left. Pleasant for the eye as she may have been, the prince hadn't looked at her twice. He knew what she was the moment he saw her, and he had no interest in what she had to offer. She kept her look averted like a respectable lady, all her motions screaming a high level of decency, but the low cut of her silken gown and the knowing flakes in her eyes claimed otherwise. Rhaegar was not one to be tempted, though, not by silk and not by gold. He was a man of duty, honor, of the kingdoms, and he wanted to know true love, be the king his realms desperately needed after bending to his father's ruinous vagary for so many years. He needed to be the dragon Westeros cried for. And for that, he had long since traded the bundle of his vanity, desire, all his whims. Lyanna Stark would later resurrect it all, and more, awaken things in him that had slumbered his entire life, enslave him with her eyes. She'd chain him, but not to the ground, no, with her, it was always a flight. With her, he was a dragon chained to the skies, just where he belonged. But that would happen later.

As the feast went on and the courses flowed in an endless river, Rhaegar took notice of the way the young lioness, still barely a woman, sunk her teeth into the roasted meat, took little bites and chewed. She did it with a fair degree of surplus swirling of her tongue, allowing it out of the confinements of her mouth a bit too freely, wielding it as if it were a sword, a snake.

A guard had interrupted the supper, bringing forth a ragged scamp who'd stolen something, Rhaegar cared not recall what, from a handmaid's chambers.

Rhaegar's father ordered for the thief to be burned right in the middle of the courtroom, and the whole lot of noble women looked away and did their best to hide their muffled whimpers. Rhaegar watched closely. His father often told him that there was an art to how a flame would carve itself into the flesh of different texture. And indeed, exploring the dance of the fire _was_ a thrill, yet one the prince dared not allow himself indulge in for far too long. Fire spoiled things, a lesson he had come to know first-hand. But he was not his father, and he would ot fear the flames either.

When Rhaegar turned to see how the lady to his left was coping, he was astir to find her gaze transfixed on the wildfire, her face a mixture of excitement and something else. Only then did he realize their hands were bundled together, hers having somehow crawled its way to his own, the two now resting entangled in his lap. He had brushed it off almost immediately, a second later than he could have.

Afterwards, he recalled laying eyes on her a few more times, though what had truly left an impression had been the way her brother stared at him as he did so. As though his sister was a part of his property that Rhaegar was attempting to purloin. The prince had never bothered to reason why.

"Shall we march forth, my lord?"

Rhaegar flinched, sliding back in reality. The bizarre taste of his unexpected daydream still oozed on his tongue. He looked up to see the knight who had entered his tent and was now regarding him with humble, trusting eyes. Outside, dusk had already veiled the sky. Rhaegar got up, his hair silver, more silver than the moon. He always let it fly around him freely, scream his lineage to the world. It was his other crown, his real crown. The one he was born wearing, not the one that would one day weigh on his head.

"Dispatch a raven to my father. Send word that his son will soon be bringing the rebellion to an end."

"Certainly, my lord." The man withdrew from the tent, his armour shimmering against the last remnants of sunlight.

Rhaegar thrust his sword back in its sheath, mind wandering back to reflect on his thoughts. Of course, it was Lyanna Stark whose name he'd roar as he swung his flawless blade at Robert Baratheon. It was her touch he'd crave throughout the many sleepless nights of blood and battle. It was her face he'd see lingering before him whenever he chose to close his eyes. Not Elia. Most certainly not Cersei Lannister.

He left the tent and mounted his snow-white stallion, leading thousands of brave men on their way to ruin, to glory and to a red-colored horizon. All the while wondering why he had spent the better part of an afternoon thinking of a woman not likely to be thought of.


End file.
